Page 37 of A Scottish Country Escape

‘Are you all right?’

Memories of rambling around with my late parents up at the reserve charged through my head.

‘No, I’m not!’

I jumped into the passenger side and slammed the door so hard that Dexter winced. There was a prolonged silence.

‘Are you OK to visit this Robert Masters guy right now, or do you want to go home and prepare for war?’

I twisted round to look at him, my face flushed with fury. ‘I’m a woman. I can multi-task, you know!’

A ghost of a smile appeared on his chiselled face before vanishing again. ‘I had noticed both things. I’ve lost my writing capability, not my eye sight.’

I focused my attention out of the car window. If the council thought the people round here were going to accept this, then they were very much mistaken.

Dexter kept shooting me side glances as we made our way back to Fir Haven, his car skimming past the winding country lanes and white blobs of grazing sheep in the myriad fields. He manoeuvred the steering wheel, taking us around the ornamental roundabout on the outskirts of town and back towards the main throng of Fir Haven.

I stared at the flashing black image on Dexter’s sat-nav screen indicating that Robert Masters’s house was moments away.

It was situated in close proximity to a couple of other impressive properties that sat opposite the church and up a slight embankment. I had passed this detached Edwardian home before on the odd occasion. It was an elaborately decorated building, built over three floors. It consisted of a combination of paler and dark-grey brick, with two ornate pillars on either side of the angular roof that protruded up into the patchy blue sky. The windows winked out of white painted frames, which complemented the glass-panelled entrance. The front garden was rather formal, made up of a curved moss-green lawn, with a belt of trees providing privacy from the main road.

Dexter clutched his car keys and we both stepped onto the pavement. ‘It’s pretty spectacular,’ he said, of the impressive abode. ‘If I had known about this place before, I would have made the guy an offer.’

‘What? And turn it into some sort of theme park?’ I scowled at him, still stung by the revelations about the reserve. ‘Not everything is about money, Dexter.’

My cheeks flashed as he said, ‘Do you know, Elle, that’s the first time you’ve called me by my Christian name? And yes, you’re right, not everything is about money.’

My blush deepened. I shouldn’t take out my frustration and pain over the reserve on him. It wasn’t fair. I moved ahead of him, easing open the claret-painted iron gate. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.’

Dexter brushed off my apology. ‘Forget it. You’re right. At times like this, you do realise that not everything should be about how much something costs or how audacious it is. I’m learning that the hard way.’

I flicked him a brief smile. ‘You will get your writing ability back.’

Now it was Dexter’s turn to deliver a fleeting smile back at me. ‘Thank you. I do appreciate that – and your help. It’s a novel experience to talk to someone who doesn’t want something from me. Most folks usually do.’

‘Ah. I’m the genuine article!’ I laughed.

Dexter’s expression softened. ‘You don’t need to tell me that. It’s a refreshing change to meet someone who doesn’t use you for what you have.’

There was an electric silence. Then a thought hit me. Oh hell! I hadn’t even considered what I was going to say!

Good afternoon. This is the crime writer Dexter Grayling, and I own a new stationery business in town. He thinks he has been put under some sort of curse and we understand you experienced the same thing years ago. Can we come in and discuss it in more detail?

It sounded like I had indulged in one too many glasses of Glenfiddich!

Assumptions reeled in my mind. What the hell did I think I was doing?

Grandma materialised in my head and I swallowed. I was doing it for her.

While we hovered from foot to foot, eyeing our hesitant reflections in the glass panels of the front door, I slid a look at Dexter. He was solemn-faced, his blue-black hair ruffling in the breeze. He reminded me of a dark, brooding poet…

I snapped my head away.

‘I don’t think there’s anyone at home,’ I remarked, listening out for any noise from within the house.

Dexter’s disappointment shone out of his eyes. He rubbed at his chin. ‘This is like some second-rate farce. First, we’re told to go to that Adam Fraser’s address. Then we get a door slammed in our faces. Now we’re told to come here.’

‘I know you’re getting frustrated, but moaning about it won’t help.’ Yes, this was the more familiar Dexter – moody and growly.